


Field Commander Kensington

by violeteyes



Category: Saints Row
Genre: ECO B53, F/M, alien COBOL, chicken paprikash, taco tuesday, unnecessary umlauts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violeteyes/pseuds/violeteyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things have settled down for the Saints in the immediate aftermath of blowing up an alien armada and fucking with the time-space continuum, but...not entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Field Commander Kensington

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonNinjaAri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonNinjaAri/gifts).



ABOARD THE USS NEW STILWATER.  
  
FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE USS MARLINE PREININGER  
  
FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE USS PRINCE PAUL AND BIZ MARKIE  
  
FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE USS NATHANIAL HÖRNBLOWÉR.  
  
FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE USS DÖÖMTHRÖNE.  
  
FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE USS JOHNNY GAT II.  
  
PROBABLY FORMERLY KNOWN AT SOME POINT AS THE ZIN MOTHERSHIP.  
  
  
WEDNESDAY.  
  
AFTER LUNCH.  
  
  
Kinzie was left with very few options.  
  
She glared at the blank bulkhead separating her workshop from The Boss's office, having spent the last minute or so pounding on it with her fist, one of her boots, and eventually a sledgehammer, all to no avail. It was thickly armored, but apparently not soundproof enough to keep her work from being interrupted by The Boss having her afternoon constitutionals. Flopping back into the beanbag chair, her glare of annoyance shifted into one of utter confusion as she looked back at the latest error message to appear on her laptop as it furiously worked to decode further secrets of Zin technology:  
  
 **310 An OQPORX I/O statement was attempted on HYBYNEX currently opened as a sort or merge USING or GIVING**  
  
And what a OQPORX might be, she had literally no idea. She didn't bother to put her left boot back on, instead throwing it across the room, where it thumped against the wall and dropped to the floor. It was quickly followed by the laptop, which in turn was retrieved by a Zin repairbot, which quietly set the re-undamaged computer on Kinzie's desk.  
  
MEANWHILE, DOWNSTAIRS  
  
Oleg Kirrlov, in stark contrast to the Saints' other technological genius, had plenty of options. The huge man grinned, raised his cleaver...  
  
...and proceeded to go to work on the chicken. Well, technically it was what the Zin called Antarean Dust Squab, but for all intents and purposes, it was chicken. With a few swift cuts, legs, wings, thighs and breasts had all been pieced out. He wiped his hands on his apron and put down the cleaver for a moment. Turning to Pierce, currently stripping the seeds and veins from a softball-sized pepper of some sort, he spoke.  
  
"Castling long."  
  
Pierce frowned, working a seedpod loose. "You're crazy. You started with Chekhover, developed the queen, and now you're...what, returning to traditional Sicilian? Okay, I'll bite. Nb4."  
  
Oleg did not reply immediately, only smiling more widely. Pierce realized his error. "Oh, you motherfucker," he muttered. Oleg leaned back against his side of the kitchen's counterspace and was about to continue asserting his control of the middle of the board when he was interrupted by the sound of a discharging plasma pistol from above. Oleg and Pierce looked up in mild confusion, Pierce already slipping his .45 Fletcher from behind his back. Three more shots followed and the men were about to bolt, supper be damned, but they were halted by the ship's PA crackling to life.  
  
"Is this thing on?!" the Boss yelled into the microphone. "Okay! Dickless over here is fired IMMEDIATELY and transferred back to Engineering. First person who can get up here and fuck me good and hard gets a million-dollar bonus and my eternal gratitude."  
  
Pierce was out the door of the kitchen immediately.  
  
MEANWHILE, UPSTAIRS BUT SLIGHTLY CLOSER TO THE FLOOR  
  
Kinzie had engaged her final privacy defences, inverting her relation vis-a-vis her seating solution and its position on the floor, hoping against hope that the noise from next door and from the gathering crowd out in the hall would cease relatively soon. To wit, she was hiding under her beanbag, attempting to focus on the comforting mantra of apocalyptic murderthoughts.  
  
Her phone chirped.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Fishing the device out of her jeans, she unlocked it, the screen so bright as to make her squint in her self-imposed exile.  
  
 **R4gn0r0k: hey kinzie**  
  
Kinzie groaned. It was Matt. And clearly he wanted something, because he wasn't calling her "Agent Kensington." That little shit. She looked back at the screen.  
  
 **R4gn0r0k: hey kinzie**  
 **R4gn0r0k: hey**  
 **R4gn0r0k: hey**  
 **R4gn0r0k: i need your advice**  
  
Lacking literally anything else entertaining at the moment, she gave in to hideous curiosity and responded with a singular "what" and hoped for the best.  
  
 **R4gn0r0k: so theres a girl**  
 **R4gn0r0k: i think she likes me**  
 **R4gn0r0k: but im not sure**  
  
Kinzie frowned. "You're a fucking adult, Matt. Haven't you been around other adults long enough working for the Syndicate, MI6 and the Saints?" she grumbled aloud---but she, possibly feeling sorry for the sap, merely typed back "so what's wrong with that?"  
  
 **R4gn0r0k: shes zin**  
 **R4gn0r0k: and your the closest thing i know of to an alien**  
 **R4gn0r0k: :V**  
  
The resulting wordless noise of rage to come from under the beanbag bore an uncanny resemblance to that of the very small, very angry offspring of an elephant and a steam whistle, and it was the sight and sound of this scene that greeted Oleg as he slipped into Kinzie's office. He moved nearly silently, surprisingly for a man of his size and, after a brief moment of flabbergastedness at the surreal tableau, cleared his throat.  
  
"Mhm."  
  
Like some bizarre ginger turtle, Kinzie's head popped out from beneath the leading edge of her beanbag. She pulled a long face. "Oh, hey, Oleg. Come up to join the Boss's casting call?"  
  
The Russian giant adjusted his jacket, having left his apron downstairs while dinner simmered under the watchful eye of an automated CID unit. He snorted, crossing the room in a few powerful strides to kneel next to the upended beanbag. "Hardly. You of all people should know that my tastes lean more towards an intellectual nature that the Boss, for all her other virtues, does not have." He touched her chin with a massive finger and she smiled, levering her arms out from under the chair and wrapping them around his shin.  
  
"Good," she said, "the last thing I want is for my...um..." Kinzie trailed off confusedly as the commotion next door became more animated again, the Boss loudly exhorting her partner (partners?) to "get in there" and "treat it like it's Taco Tuesday." At this, Kinzie fell apart laughing, and even Oleg could not deny a chuckle. With a sigh, Kensington slipped out from her hidey-hole and flopped down on top of the beanbag again.  
  
Still laughing, she tried to gather her thoughts, but failed. "Fuck it, whatever. It wasn't important."  
  
Oleg slowly lowered himself onto the beanbag next to her, taking up most of it. Kinzie burrowed up close to the giant's chest. If she was a cat, she'd purr. "It could be asked," he continued, "in these strange days, what even is important to us few remaining humans?"  
  
Kinzie gave it a bit of thought.  
  
"Getting out of those clothes and helping me show the Boss what she's missing out on?"  
  
"I thought you'd never ask, my little firecracker."

**Author's Note:**

> For Marline Preininger (born c. 1921), clearly in line to be a Saint: sometimes, you just have to go and slap a cop.
> 
> Notes: For yuletide, fretted over for far longer than necessary. So, the usual. At least my apartment building didn't catch on fire like last year. Title after Leonard Cohen's "Field Commander Cohen." ("But then I overheard your prayer, that you be this and nothing more....the patron Saint of envy and the grocer of despair.") Original version of chess match modeled after Susan Polgar's swindle of Murray Chandler in 1987, but tossed out in editing. Preininger's story discovered in WWII-era Pittsburgh newspapers while googling for a phrase---ultimately unused in final draft---to check to see if I was plagiarizing. Worth googling her name for. Cops never change.
> 
> Author's additional notes: I am a shitty chess player.


End file.
